


The Judge of Paris Poor

by HeroicDisney



Category: Disney - All Media Types, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Disney, F/M, Gen, Paris (City), Sexual Tension, Shame, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22452019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroicDisney/pseuds/HeroicDisney
Summary: In the hot Parisian summer of 1434, a boy on the verge of manhood sits in the seminary school of Notre Dame. Claude Frollo has feelings that conflict him, distraught that his dreams about the chandler's girl go against the teachings of the Church. When he seeks guidance from the steely Father Antonin about his feelings and future, young Frollo decides the course of his entire life.
Relationships: Claude Frollo/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 16





	The Judge of Paris Poor

The bells of Notre Dame were silent. No one ventured into the tallest towers to ring them, no one dared, not even on Sundays. They only rang on Easter, Christmas, and other holy days the Catholic Church observed, but most days of the year, silent as stars.

It’d become tradition to keep them quiet, for Notre Dame was more than a towering cathedral of worship, a home to the fathers and mothers and orphaned children, and a sanctuary to the needy—it was, in those days, a school.

The year was 1434. The Parisian summer was hot. All across the city, children were running through cobbled streets and yellowed fields, free from the school year and beginning apprenticeships, or for the youngest, enjoying the last summer of childhood. If he looked out the stained-glass window of their stifling classroom, he could see them playing.

He was a lanky boy, fourteen years old and already the tallest in his class. His voice had deepened before any of the other boys. By this time all of his classmates were maturing with him, so it felt less awkward, but for a time classes had been… difficult.

And when classes grew difficult, his eyes wandered outside. There were girls outside, girls who helped their fathers in chandler shops and leatherwork, girls who were learning how to tend taverns. These girls had matured, too. He watched their bodies move, their wide hips and ample bosoms, which had only just come into bloom...

A hand struck the back of his head. “Master Frollo! Eyes on me, if you will.”

The boy rubbed where their teacher had hit him. “Yes, Father Antonin.”

The other boys, sitting in rows of hard wooden desks, sniggered and pointed. Father Antonin whipped around and gave them the Devil’s glare, and they shut up faster than a guillotine sliced heads. Father Antonin was tall. Burly. The schoolboys often made up stories about his life prior to joining the church—he had been a chevalier in the king’s court who’d killed too many and sought repentance, he had been a farm laborer who’d slept with the landlord’s wife and sought forgiveness, he had been an assassin for hire who’d angered the wrong people and sought obscurity—but Frollo believed none of them. He knew who Father Antonin was, and his classmates were all wrong.

Antonin was a devil. Not the Devil, as in Lucifer Morningstar, the Fallen One, the Prince of Hell, but rather one of his lesser demons. He’d infiltrated the Church to punish the good. Or he’d been ordered by the Almighty to punish the wicked.

You found both in church. Angels and demons in every confessional.

The steel-haired, bearded father marched up and down the classroom, checking that the boys had opened their Bibles to the correct page. The afternoon lesson dragged on for what felt like hours, hours that Frollo kept his eyes from wandering back outside, hours that Frollo would never get back. But at last, the hours came to an end. Class dismissed.

“Remember, boys, you should soon be choosing the course of study you will pursue when you graduate seminary. Tell a father your decision by the end of the week.”

The other boys shuffled out of the classroom, fervently discussing the things they wanted to study after seminary—one wanted to go into office, another in business, and many the church—but Frollo remained. He walked timidly up to the father’s desk at the front. Antonin didn’t look up from his parchment, a student essay. “What do you want, boy?”

Frollo felt a lump in his throat. “Well, sir, it was just… I wanted to ask something.”

“I had concluded that much already. Is this about a course of study?”

“No, it’s about… a dream I had last night.”

The father looked up now. “What kind of dream?”

“I think it was the bad kind. The girl from the chandler’s shop.”

Antonin set the stack of parchment aside and stood up from his desk. He towered over Frollo, looking at him the way people looked at insects, his rigid mouth dropping to a frown. “You dreamed of sensual things, is that what you mean? The passions of the flesh, carnal pleasure, this was your dream? You know what the Word of God says.”

“Y-Yes, I know, I know my thoughts were not… not what the Lord wants. But why is that? Why did I have this dream if it goes against heaven’s wishes?”

“Your dream was temptation from Satan himself… and you enjoyed it? Are you a dog, that you cannot control your lust?” Antonin gestured to the stained-glass window, an image of their white-skinned Savior on the cross in an array of color and light. “Cast evil out. Ask the Lord’s mercy. In this church, Master Frollo, our hearts only have room for God.”

“Yes, Father Antonin. Of course, Father Antonin.”

“What would you be, if not for the Church? For the Lord?” The robed man turned his back to Frollo, waiting on an answer that never came. Both of them knew Frollo had no parents, not since they had perished in a last bout of plague so many years ago, no home to call his own but the church: a stiff cot and cold meals, but still a place to sleep and food to eat. The answer was clear: Claude Frollo was nothing without the mercy of the Lord.

“Put these thoughts to rest, boy. They are ugly.”

***

His schooling done for the day, Frollo left the great cathedral of Notre Dame. He would return later when dinner was served, and then he would retire to the boys’ chambers for the night. The fathers always chastised anyone who wasn’t back by dinnertime, but Frollo didn’t plan on staying out that long.

He walked the dirty streets of Paris, roads lined with human and animal waste, rotten food, and migrants who brought filth and disease with them wherever they went. The Parisian impoverished were a pitiful sight—men, women, and children in tattered, improper clothes, some of whom didn’t even have the decency to move out of his way when he walked past. Spaniards offered to sing or dance for a few francs. Italians asked if there was work to be done, food to be cooked. But they weren’t the worst on the streets.

Frollo hated gypsies the most. They didn’t have a country—every decent man had a country—but rather traveled the whole continent, going places they weren’t wanted. Gypsies stole, cheated, lied, and seduced. They dabbled in the evil arts of tarot cards and fortune-telling. Father Antonin always said there was a Circle of Hell reserved for gypsies, where they had no future to read beyond eternal damnation.

He scoffed at the gypsy man—olive-skinned with dirt in his wavy black hair and beard, wearing earrings he clearly stole—who slept in the alleyway near the chandler’s shop. The gypsy was Manfri, and he was always scurrying around the candlemaker’s like vermin.

“Doesn’t he ever bother you?” Frollo asked the girl sweeping the shop floor.

She smiled, round-cheeked and dimpled. “Manfri knows my father doesn’t allow him in the shop. I don’t think he’s allowed in any shops on this block.” The girl dropped her voice to a whisper. “Is it true they’re all godless?”

Frollo nodded morbidly. “Heathens to the core.”

“Should I pray for them, Claude?”

“Don’t waste God’s time. He doesn’t care for outcasts like him.” He looked a little too long at the girl, at her pink lips and soft skin, hair yellow as the straw in the broom she carried. “Your prayers are too sweet to spend on Manfri.”

She was Perinne, the daughter of the candlestick maker.

Frollo had met her two years ago, in this very spot, on a day that he’d skipped Church classes for the day to wander around the city. He’d gotten a whipping when he returned that had stung for a week, but it’d been worth it. Perinne had seen him sitting on a bench outside their shop and asked him why he looked so glum. Frollo was dumbfounded and ran back to Notre Dame without saying a word, but the next day, he returned to the chandler’s shop and found her again. She’d laughed, given her name, and asked his.

Now Perinne’s buck-toothed smile shone whenever he neared. They would spend hours, when Frollo could sneak them, talking about the Almighty’s plans for the good Parisian people and how one day the bad would all be punished. It made them giddy.

“I think my father will let me leave early today. Walk with me around the shops?”

Frollo nodded with a guilty grin. Perinne finished sweeping the floor and dusted the window-display tables, then ran inside to her father. Frollo watched her give the wrinkled man a kiss on the cheek. She did it so sweetly, so lightly, like a raindrop on a leaf.

Perinne removed her apron and rejoined him outside. “Follow me, Claude!”

Together they strolled through the streets, looking in shop windows and laughing at the uglier people they passed. They watched the tanner working his leather, soaking the hides, cutting strips that were bought by a cobbler. The plump shoemaker took his stack of leather back to his shop, where he set to work on a new pair. There were all sorts in Paris, clothes-makers and luncheons and artists selling portraits in the streets. The City of Lights was the spirit of vibrancy, thousands of people seeking new life after the plague of last century.

Of course, Paris was also the City of Love. His young heart beat wildly every time Perinne smiled and leapt when she laughed. Frollo couldn’t see how such feelings were against God’s will, for surely God had created man and women for their union, for marriage.

But Frollo knew marriage wasn't what he wanted. It was a lie because it put earth above heaven, and that was sin, and what he wanted… that was sin.

“Here’s what I wanted to show you. Look, see how beautiful it is!” Perinne took his hand and dragged him to a jewelry shop. In the window was a shining golden necklace embedded with powder blue gemstones and white pearls, and in the center, the star attraction: a sapphire pendant in the shape of a single, heartbroken teardrop. “It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It is nice… but a little much for our purses, don’t you think?”

“Oui, oui, I just want to look,” she rebutted. But apparently she wanted more than to look—the next moment, Perinne had darted into the store to get a closer look. Frollo followed her inside, shaking his head but smiling.

Perinne had lifted the sapphire-and-pearl necklace off the display and looped it around her neck, admiring herself in a mirror. “What do you think? Is it my color?”

She pulled her shirt down to better see the necklace against her skin. She pulled very far down. Frollo felt his own neck grow hot as he stared at her smooth skin, white and tender, and couldn’t stop himself thinking how her body had changed in recent months.

Frollo’s dream flashed hot in his mind, their skin touching, her lips parting…

“Excusez-moi! You may not play dress-up, mademoiselle.”

The irate store owner spun Perinne around and removed the necklace. She glared at him but otherwise didn’t protest, though her eyes followed the necklace longingly as he wiped it off and returned it to the display. “Come on, Claude. We aren’t wanted.”

Perinne rushed out of the shop, Frollo quickly following. Her top was still down lower than it should’ve been, and he saw the curves of her chest and she posed indignantly against the wall, her golden-wheat hair framing her neck perfectly. His lower body felt funny.

“What’s the matter, Claude? You look like you’re in a trance.”

Frollo’s head was in a whirl. “You shouldn’t… your blouse… it’s not proper.”

Her eyes flashed mischievously. “Oh, I know. Don’t tell my father.”

“What? Of course I won’t… What are you doing?”

“If you don’t tell my father… I’ll let you see a little more.”

“Perinne!” He grabbed her hand.

She yanked away from him, pulling her shirt up in a huff. “What’s the matter with you? Too good for me?” Perinne backed up, spinning around so her back was to him, her hand on her forehead. He heard her mutter, “What am I doing? I don’t—I didn’t—Claude!” She whipped around again, tears in her eyes. “Don’t tell my father.”

But Frollo was already gone.

***

An early night had fallen on Paris. The lights never went out in the city, of course, you’d always see candles in windows burning at every hour of the night. There were candles in shops, cafes, homes, and of course the churches. Many of the waxworks in Notre Dame cathedral were supplied by the local chandler’s shop, and he’d always been eager to trek downtown and pick up their supplies, but Frollo didn’t think he’d be returning for some time.

Frollo watched the candles burning through the stained-glass windows of the cathedral. He was huddled on the lawn outside the back of Notre Dame, hiding in a bush where he hoped the fathers wouldn’t see him. He knew what Antonin would do if he caught him out late again, so Frollo stayed hidden, watching the sacred parade from outside.

“Why do I…” Frollo tugged at his hair, head buried in his hands. “Why am I like this?” He heard soft chanting from inside the cathedral, the priests’ evening service. It was a perfect, ordained display, the fathers in their pure robes, an image of righteousness.

Why couldn’t he be righteous? Why did the Lord test him so cruelly?

“Forgive me, Father, for I…” Frollo stumbled the words out. They said the Almighty was always listening, and he couldn’t wait until Confession. He needed to know what he felt was good, was just, that he wasn’t what Antonin said. “...I cannot stop myself.”

Frollo sputtered and spat and tried to keep a whisper. “It’s my fault… mea culpa…” That was among the first Latin phrases the boys had been taught. “I am a dog. The things I desire, the thoughts I cannot banish… ugly. All of it, ugly!”

He knew men’s bodies betrayed them when they aged—hair going grey, limbs giving out, and hearts stopping their beat—but no one told him the mutiny would begin in his teenage years. When he passed the chandler’s shop and saw Perinne sweeping, when he saw sunlight in her golden hair, he felt the monster between his legs rear its ugly head.

Sometimes Frollo envied the eunuchs.

“I am perverse…” he whispered, head bowed, “...and I am ugly.” These were crimes for which the world had little pity. He didn’t know what would happen if he couldn’t control his sin—someone so corrupt couldn’t stay in the church, they would find him out—and he had no family left, no aunts or uncles, no one in Paris. Would he sleep on the streets, like the gypsy Manfri? Is that what he’d come to? Frollo would sooner join the king’s army and take his chances on the battlefield, but a higher life of learning, of justice, that was dead to him.

Father Antonin would ask the boys what their chosen course of study was, and his classmates would all say medicine, architecture, business, but not Frollo. He’d hang his head and mutter soldier, not a chevalier, just another sword. How they would laugh!

“You are not ugly to the Lord. Repent and be clean.”

“F-Father Antonin, I-I was… I didn’t…”

“Boy,” the steel-haired priest said slowly, not unkindly, “there is a hard lesson that I learned long ago, when I wasn’t much older than you. Get off the grass. Come with me.”

In his distress and doubt, had the father said anything to him of scorn, if he’d spoken in his usual bark, Frollo might have fled from him and found a soldier captain to enlist under. On any other night in any other situation, he really might have. But Father Antonin’s voice had none of the usual malice, and curious, Frollo rose and followed.

They walked around the outside of Notre Dame, that great cathedral of stone spires and arches, guarded by rows upon rows of saints and angels. Frollo had never admired the architecture before, but he was in a strange way just then, fearful and hopeful all at once.

“Your dream, your wandering eyes… these have told us all we need to know. The Devil is tempting you to stray from the holy path, as Christ himself was tempted.”

“Father… do you mean that if Christ was, then I… I am not…”

“When Satan came to the Son in the desert and offered him food, did he blame his stomach? When Satan told him the world could be his kingdom, did he blame the world?”

“No,” Frollo answered simply, “it wasn’t them. It was the Devil.”

“It was the Devil,” Antonin repeated, nodding. “You are the tempted, but you are not the tempter. Who is the tempter, boy? Ask yourself that instead of writhing in guilt.”

Never had Frollo thought of it that way before. If there was a difference between tempted and tempter, if he could strive to live a life like Christ, who was offered the chance to sin by the Lord of Hell himself, by the perilous men of Earth, by the wretched Mary Magdalene…

He had to think not of his sin, but who was leading him to sin.

“I understand, Father.”

Antonin nodded again and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, leading him out of the black night and into the hallowed halls of the cathedral. He knew the way down to the boys’ chambers, but Frollo was glad to not be alone on such a night. Strange that he should be glad of Father Antonin’s company, the man he’d been so leery of, the man who’d seemed so unjustly cruel that he couldn’t have been of this earth, but now that they’d spoken…

“I am sorry for thinking so poorly of you, Father,” he confessed, walking beside the priest with his head hanging low. “I used to think you were a devil from Hell. I was wrong.”

“Oh, my boy,” Antonin sighed, shaking his head, “we are not the devils.” Now they stood outside the arched doorway that led downstairs, where Frollo and the other church orphans lived. It was beyond dark now, the only light in Notre Dame coming from a flickering wax candle on the wall. He could barely see Antonin’s expression. “You may be sinful, as are we all, but you are not as bad as the gypsy vermin. You are not the women who sell themselves for gold. Remember that, boy.”

The father reached over to the lone candle and extinguished the flame by grabbing it with his fingers. Frollo expected him to yelp in pain, but he was completely silent. The cathedral was in utter darkness. Frollo went downstairs to his chambers, and Father Antonin walked away, his black robes flowing behind him like the River Styx.

***

The city cried out in the night, as if to say injustice was creeping its roots under the streets through the dark catacombs of Paris where the dead were buried. Perhaps the city wept for the crime committed, the theft of something invaluable.

It wasn’t until the next morning that the jeweler discovered he’d been robbed. When he’d come to his shop earlier than the sun was in the sky, he found the door had been opened by an amateur lockpick, something fine as a hairpin. It was left unlocked and slightly ajar. The money in his safe wasn’t missing, and some of his rarest pieces were where they belonged, which he found quite odd. In fact, only one item was unaccounted for.

The shopkeeper accompanied the city guards when they arrived at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the backdoor entrance that led to the seminary classrooms and downstairs chambers where the fathers, mothers, and orphaned children slept. The guards showed no regard for the crosses and images of the Virgin Mary on the walls. They stormed through the halls, down the steps, and banged on the door of the fathers’ chambers.

“At this hour? What is the meaning of this?” Antonin sputtered in his nightgown.

“We require an audience with one of your boys,” the shopkeeper said.

And just as the sun was rising over the roofs and smoking chimneys of the Parisian cityscape, Father Antonin was standing with his arm around a trembling Claude Frollo. It was an unusually chilly morning given that the summer had been so hot, and they’d left in such a hurry that Frollo hadn’t been permitted to put on a coat. Antonin and Frollo had been marched by the city guards and the irate merchant back to his jewelry shop.

When they arrived, Frollo saw the item missing from the display window. His eyes widened and he looked again, just to be sure, but there was no mistake. Every earring, bracelet, ring, and necklace was present except for one damnable blue pearl piece.

“I remember well,” the shopkeeper announced, pointing at Frollo. “This boy was in my shop yesterday. He and his little friend were eyeing the necklace, my prize necklace, and it goes missing that very night? I think I know who to blame.”

The guards turned to glare at Frollo, who hid himself in the folds of Father Antonin’s cloak. The store owner looked ready to pull a knife on him then and there. He wanted to scream that he was only a boy, that they couldn’t possibly throw him in the stocks or cut off his hands as recompense, but then again was he a boy anymore?

Wasn’t Frollo past his boyhood days of playing games in the streets, getting a glass of warm milk from the mothers before bed, not caring about what the world had in store for him? Wasn’t it the time that all his classmates were thinking about their future careers, and careers were made for men, not boys, so what did that mean? Frollo knew what it meant—he was old enough to be as guilty in the eyes of these men as a dirty gypsy.

“I… I don’t…” Frollo’s mouth felt like he’d swallowed flour.

“You don’t what, boy? Speak up when we talk to you!” the merchant screamed.

Frollo looked helplessly at Father Antonin, whose face was devoid of any recognizable emotion. It was like looking at the faces of the saintly statues that lined the walls of Notre Dame. Father Antonin folded his hands together. “Master Frollo… did you take this man’s necklace?” His head bowed just so. “Or do you know who did?”

He didn’t know if he should look at Antonin or the guards or just stare at the ground miserably. The father’s question felt like in school where you were given the option of two choices but neither felt like the right answer. What was that called? A trick question.

Frollo looked to the heavens and saw that the morning sun was in full force now, like the light of Jesus Christ himself shining on the mortal world below, the sinful world. There were so many who lived in wretchedness and depravity, Frollo saw that every day, from the thieves to the lustful. He wondered which sin was greater in the eyes of the Almighty. He’d have to ask Father Antonin next chance he got, and Frollo realized then that if he took the blame for this grievous robbery, then he’d never get that chance. The other boys would choose careers and go on to lead successful, happy lives while he would rot in jail. The awkward one, the lanky one, the boy whose pimples came before the others, whose voice deepened first, who had to explain to the Father why he had such perverse thoughts in the heat of the night… That would be him. Another rotting fruit in the scummy gutter waste of Paris, a city of vermin worse than in the century of the plague. He’d be everything they said he was.

Frollo lowered his head to meet the shopkeeper face-to-face. “I am no thief, you avaricious businessman. But I know who did steal it, and I’ll tell you.”

The name was on his lips, the store owner’s face nearly popped with anticipation. Then he saw her. Peering around the corner of the far shops was a familiar dimpled countenance, a pleasant-faced girl with blonde hair like wispy summer straw. She gazed at him in desperation, a pleading in her eyes that Frollo could not shake.

He froze where he stood. She was still such a lovely girl, the picture of blossoming womanhood, and the thought of what he wanted to do to her… rather, what he’d be putting her through if he gave her name to the authorities, that thought unsettled him.

She wasn’t the worst of the worst. She may have been guilty of larceny, but that didn’t make her a gutter rat that scampered through Paris swindling hard-working people of their francs. She wasn’t a belly dancer, a fortune-teller.

“There is a gypsy who lingers around these shops. Ugly fellow with gaudy earrings. His name is Manfri. He’s been eyeing that sapphire-and-pearl necklace for days, I’ve seen him.”

“Mais oui! That dirty gypsy!” the merchant said, spitting out the name. “Manfri will rot for this, mark my words. Guards, you have a mongrel to catch and collar.”

The city guards exchanged a quick look of duty—they knew who this Manfri character was, they kept tabs on all the gypsies in the city—then marched off in pursuit of their criminal. Pleased with the quick response, the jewelry store owner retreated into his shop with a vindictive smile, slamming the door and drawing the curtains behind the windows.

Once again, Frollo was left alone with Father Antonin. The sharp-eyed priest must have sensed the boy was trembling on the inside, because he put a hand on his shoulder. It was a slight touch, a small transference of body warmth, but enough to lift Frollo’s spirits on that cool summer morning.

“You see, boy?” Father Antonin extended his hand, drawing Frollo’s attention to the sight of the city guards dragging the limp body of Manfri the gypsy from an alleyway three blocks ahead of them. “You may be sinful, but you are not the gypsies. You are not the painted ladies.”

He nodded his understanding but didn’t look at the father. He was too mesmerized by the scene playing out in front of them. Frollo couldn’t keep a grin off his face.

“These past days have been difficult for you, haven’t they, Master Frollo?” the father said, folding his hands together. “Why don’t you take the day to yourself? Enjoy the city. Have lunch at a cafe by the Seine. And give some thought to what course of study you wish to go into following seminary.”

“Thank you, Father. I’ll know by the day’s end.”

“There’s a good lad. Return to Notre Dame before nightfall.”

Antonin reached into the black depths of his cloak and withdrew a small purse that jingled with coins. He dropped a few francs into Frollo’s outstretched hands, returned the bag to his cloak, and offered Frollo something he’d never done before: a handshake.

Frollo took the offer eagerly.

When he was by himself in the city plaza, surrounded by empty shops that wouldn’t open for another hour or so, there was a strange peace in the air. The streets were polluted by one less gypsy, and that was something to revel in. But the sound of someone breathing meekly, like a mouse hiding from an owl, reminded him that he wasn’t alone.

“Come out, Perinne,” he said cooly. The girl appeared from behind the corner, holding her broom handle in front of her face as if she thought it could hide her.

“Claude…” she whispered, not meeting his eyes. “How can I ever thank you?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Manfri is arrested. Justice is served.”

“Oui, oui, I know, but Claude… you know the truth.”

He tensed, unsure of how he wanted to respond. Perhaps she mistook his silence for sympathy, because Perinne grabbed his hand and held it tightly. A shadow of a buck-toothed smile flashed across her lips. “No one has ever been so good to me, Claude. I really feel I should repay you for it. Tell me how I can repay you.”

Perinne slid his hand to feel her side, then gradually she moved his arm till his fingers were crawling up her body, and she felt so warm and smooth and it was all Frollo could stand to keep himself from panting like a dog. His mind played a concert of his dreams, and for the first time it struck him that Perinne may have had dreams, too. She might’ve seen lustful visions, nights of red flame illuminated in her mind’s eye, but the fire came from Hell below and he rejected it. Frollo saw, clearly, that she did not.

“Temptress!” he hissed, smacking her hand away before she brought his any further up her chest. “You vile little harlot! How dare you lead me so astray?”

“What? Claude, don’t—don’t say that—We can do whatever you—”

Frollo struck her hard across the face. He’d never really hit anyone before, not the boys in his class or the dogs that roamed the streets, but he smacked Perinne with such fervor that he saw red like the bulls in Spain. She gasped in pain and fell to the cobblestone ground.

When she fell, a golden necklace inlaid with white and sky blue pearls and a shimmering sapphire clattered out of her pocket. For a moment, they both simply stared at it.

Frollo spoke first. “You are a thief and a tramp.”

“But Claude, I thought we were fr—”

“You disgust me. You are ugly.”

“Perinne! Ma fille!”

Both of the teenagers were shocked silent by the voice that shouted at them from afar. It was a man’s voice, full of alarm and fury, and the man it belonged to was marching over to Frollo and Perinne like a wild bull charging through the streets destroying everything in its path. He recognized the man as the chandler.

“Papa, I wasn’t—This is not what it looks like!” she squeaked.

The candle maker’s eyes were hotter than the melted wax he worked with. He grabbed his daughter by her upper arm, squeezing hard. If the man saw Frollo there, he didn’t acknowledge him through his frenzied rage. “I know what this is!”

He picked the necklace up from the ground and stared at it like it was something he’d scooped out of a cow pasture. “You have done it again, Perinne, taking what is not yours to take! We must throw this away before the city guards find it and have us arrested.”

Her father threw the beautiful, priceless necklace down the nearest alleyway and watched it land among the mud and week-old produce. If someone wasn’t looking for the glint of gold of the blue of the sapphire, they’d never even see it as they passed by the alley in their busy city lives. Likely the guards would find it in a week and attribute it to Manfri, who always lingered around this part of Paris. All’s well that ends well.

Then her father eyed the lower-than-normal top of her shirt, the rosy flush in her cheeks, and the way her eyes shook and dodged between him and Frollo. For the briefest moment, Frollo wondered if he’d seen where she’d placed his hand mere minutes ago, but then the look in his eyes told Frollo that this man didn’t need to have seen to know what was going on.

He yanked Perinne away by her wrist, and after struggling in vain with him, the girl gave up and marched after her father. She looked behind her shoulder at Claude Frollo, but he’d turned his back to her. Her father pulled her head back around by her hair.

“Temptress…” Frollo repeated in a harsh whisper. “Harlot…”

He’d seen the visions of hellfire, the warmth created by their entwining flesh, in his darkest dreams. He had ached and throbbed and mourned and prayed to the Heavenly Father to show him some meaning of his senseless lust, for what good was it to throw such lustful fantasies his way if the Lord didn’t have some plan for him?

God had a plan for all of them, that’s what the fathers and mothers always said. His plan was punishment for the vermin and reward for the saintly, and Frollo knew which of the two he wanted to be. He had been tempted like Jesus Christ himself in the desert. Now Frollo was stronger than ever, purer than before, perhaps even holier.

Father Antonin was right: instead of writhing in guilt, he had to ask himself who was his tempter. And now Frollo knew—he’d never let a wicked woman corrupt him again.

Perinne and her father left the city of Paris by the week’s end.

***

The only sound in the room was the fervent scratching of quills on paper. It was the last day of class for this seminary, for the boys were graduating from their early education and going on to grander things in life. This was the last essay they’d have to write as boys. Once they turned it in, they were on their way to becoming men.

For days now Frollo’s peers had been talking of nothing but their careers. One boy loudly boasted that he was going to study arithmetic, another had been accepted into a culinary school of all things. The majority of the boys, of course, would be remaining with the church and going on to spread the Gospel throughout all corners of the godforsaken world.

The feeling of near freedom hung in the air. As boys finished their essays—in which they were to analyze a particular passage from the Old Testament or the New, a passage that spoke to them directly—they ran them up to Father Antonin’s desk and left them in a messy pile.

“God’s blessing to you, my boy,” he said mechanically to each one.

They weren’t really going anywhere. Even the ones who didn’t live in the orphanages of Notre Dame came there for Mass, for the Rosary, and to confess their sins in a blind box. The Church would always be a part of their lives, for now that Jesus Christ had come into their minds, bodies, and souls, he would never leave.

One by one, his classmates turned in their essays and left, and frankly Frollo didn’t care if he never saw any of them again. He couldn’t call a single one of them his friend. That was perfectly fine. Now that Frollo had decided on his own course of study, he would one day be far above all of them, far, far better.

“Master Frollo, you are the last again.”

Not for much longer, Frollo wanted to sneer in triumph.

“What biblical passage did you write your essay about?”

“David and Bathsheba.” Frollo laid the three pieces of parchment on Father Antonin’s desk with a sense of accomplishment. He had studied the verses well and composed a brilliant piece, if he could be so brazen, about how a king in God’s own image was forever ruined by the scandalous enchantment of a woman bathing nude on a roof.

“It has been a privilege getting to know you better, Master Frollo. I trust you feel a tad more enlightened?” Father Antonin asked, and Frollo knew he wasn’t talking about what he’d learned in seminary.

“Yes, Father. Thank you for your guidance.” For so long the father had been a monster to him, an actual devil, but he’d been entirely wrong about the good priest.

“Guidance is why I joined the Church,” the father said, bowing his head slightly. “I desired to help lost youths like yourselves, who were going through trials of sin. And what of you and your course of study? What do you desire?”

“What do I desire?” Frollo repeated, then voiced what he had been thinking for days now, what had settled on him as the only worthy pursuit of his life. “Justice.”

Father Antonin raised an eyebrow, a quizzical look on his face. Frollo elaborated for him. “I have spoken to the ministers of the law and they are willing to take me on as their newest pupil. I will study the laws of the city and the workings of the court. I will learn everything from them, and one day, I shall be a judge.”

“You wish to administer God’s justice.”

“I do,” Frollo said simply. He’d never been so sure of anything.

The father folded his hands together over his desk, his fingers matched up menacingly. But the smile on his face inspired pride, not terror. “A worthy pursuit, Master Frollo. There is much that needs cleaning in this world. Much indeed.”

“Much temptation,” Frollo added, nodding eagerly.

“You have learned well. I have faith you’ll perform miracles in the court.”

Frollo took the rest of his things and left the classroom he’d spent so many years in. Soon he would move out of the orphanage below the cathedral, for the minister of the law had a residence for the pupils they accepted. His home would be the court of law.

Outside La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, the young man paused a moment. Like his classmates, the Church had taught him much about the ways of the world. Frollo gazed in awe at the monumental stone towers on either side of the front, empty chambers for the massive bells that were never rung. There were gargoyles and saints alike decorating the building, for angels and demons were both found in church.

The Cathedral of Notre Dame was his past now, a reminder of the weak, easily misguided youth he used to be. Frollo’s life was the city’s justice now—God’s justice. The court would be his church, and he very much doubted he’d ever set foot in Notre Dame again.


End file.
